My iguana cage is silent.
Just two weeks ago it was alive with sounds.
I wish we’d just throw it out.
The other night I heard a helicopter fly over my head.
I hear a lot of helicopters at night when I’m trying to sleep but this one was different.
I was at UCLA and it was late at night and it flew over my head and I ran away from it but then it landed on the top of the UCLA emergency room parking lot and I was glad the awful noise just stopped.
The answering machine picks up and says I would like to know if you can join Kaleidoscope on Sunday night.
I don’t recognize the voice but I know it has something to do with school.
I hear my stomach gurgling.
It sounds like a washing machine.
The siren of a police car wakes my cat up.
The sound of a blue jay squawking is stopped by a loud shriek.
I wonder if my cat got the bird.
A dog is howling like a werewolf next door.
The thought of that makes me shiver.
I hit my pen against the table like a drumstick.
I’m drumming to “Love Me Do.”
It’s suddenly so quiet.
The French people to the left of us are not home.
The Japanese people to the right are asleep.
I don’t like it.
The only sound I hear is the tap tap tapping of my foot on the floor and the rap rap rapping of my pen on the table . . .
Paul McCartney’s voice sings in my head.
I can’t believe he can sing so deep and so high at the same time.